Caravaggio's Angel (23 page)

At half past three we arrived at what seemed to be our destination, in a town whose name I hadn’t registered as we turned off the autoroute. We drove through a labyrinth of grubby streets beside some railway sidings, fetching up in a district of dilapidated high-rises and heavily fortified shops, where veiled women hurried along the broken pavement and groups of loitering African and Algerian boys, unwanted debris of a dead colonial past, clustered around bus shelters and in rubbish-strewn stretches of unkempt grass. Manu seemed to know his way around – had obviously been here before. I wondered what had brought him – sex? The only other middle-class whites I could imagine in these streets would be social workers, and I certainly didn’t see Manu as one of those.

We parked just off a shabby main street containing a municipal-looking hall. I noticed Manu didn’t bother to lock the car. Perhaps he didn’t care, or maybe he thought locking it simply a pointless gesture, no defence against the marauding youths. We joined a stream of citizens evidently headed for some event, and I noticed a poster informing us that at four o’clock today the Minister of the Interior, Jean-Jacques Rigaut, was due to address a public meeting in the hall. A cluster of blue police vans parked a little way down the street were presumably connected with this event – a visible presence intended to discourage trouble or stifle it should it occur. That there was potential for trouble was clear. At some point the groups of boys would get too big, or too close, the police would spill out of their vans and there’d be a full-scale confrontation of the kind they’d been rehearsing in the woods at St Front. For the moment the boys kept their distance, but groups of them were gathered everywhere you looked. For them Rigaut was the enemy, which of course was exactly why he had chosen this particular venue. His message was addressed to the other inhabitants of this place, the ones who’d been here before the tower blocks came, who inhabited leafy villas a few streets away and lived in terror of the roaming boys. If there was trouble so much the better – his support would only increase. I was surprised, at first, that the authorities had allowed him to speak here – such a person in such a place was so unequivocally inflammatory. But they prob-ably had little choice in the matter. Rigaut, as Minister of the Interior, was ultimately responsible for law and order, and if he chose to come here it would be almost impossible to prevent it.

At the door, formidable-looking bouncers scrutinized all comers. It was pretty clear what – or who – they were looking for. No black or brown person would attend a gathering like this unless they had trouble in mind. Not that any seemed very keen to penetrate the cordon – they confined themselves to watching from a distance. The people in the hall reminded me of the marchers I’d seen near the Voltaire that day with Olivier, respectable small shopkeepers and functionaries, all lily-white. From time to time the bouncers stopped someone and conducted a random search. They stared at us, as they stared at everyone, and Manu stared back. They eyed him with what might have been suspicion or astonishment – his resemblance to his father was unmistakable – then nodded him through. I followed in his wake, head well down, wishing I wasn’t there. If Manu had told me before we set off where we were headed, I certainly wouldn’t have come. That, I imagined, was why he’d kept his mouth shut. Though why should he want me there? As a witness? To what? I couldn’t think why he’d come – he must know exactly what his father would be likely to say, and it wasn’t as if his hatred needed stoking. Or perhaps it did: perhaps he was trying to pump himself up for some confrontation, intended to embarrass Rigaut in some way. In which case the very last thing I needed right now was to be sitting beside him. If I wasn’t careful my passport would be confiscated again on some pretext – suspected terrorism, perhaps.

The hall had a platform at one end and the inevitable town-hall rows of tubular steel and canvas chairs. To my horror Manu marched resolutely towards the front. The front row seats were all reserved, but he made his way to the centre of the second row. I’d have left then, had I known where we were or how you got out of it. But there definitely wouldn’t be any taxis, and I didn’t fancy waiting for a bus under the eyes of the bus shelter’s habitual occupants, nor sitting alone for who knew how long in the car. I hoped it would still be in working order when we got back to it. Meanwhile all I could do was to tag reluctantly along in Manu’s wake, and try to pretend I wasn’t there.

Circumstances, however, were against me. Our row was empty except for us: the hall, as always, was filling from the back. As Manu no doubt intended, Rigaut couldn’t fail to notice us. I said ‘Can’t we sit a bit further back?’

‘Further back? Why? Don’t you want a good view?’

I was still havering between leaving or moving to a less conspicuous seat when a stir in the crowd announced the day’s main attraction and the Minister marched on to the stage. A claque at the back applauded: he acknowledged them with a raised hand. I waited for a catcall, but none came – this was a gathering of true believers. His gaze raked the audience: it settled briefly on us, but he remained expressionless. He was briefly introduced (as though we didn’t all know who he was), and began to speak.

He gave what was clearly his stock speech, though now with detail appropriate to this bleak urban venue – dangerous streets, not enough jobs, the threat of uncontrolled immigration, the mob at the gates. It was old stuff – every-one there had heard him say it a thousand times. But as everyone knew, the words were beside the point. This wasn’t a policy meeting. The real statement was his presence. He was their ally, he was with them in the continuing war against the threatening boys outside. That was what they wanted to know, that was why they would vote for him when the time came.

Beside me, Manu tensed. Whatever he’d come for was clearly about to happen. Then there was a noise – a sort of muffled roar – from outside, and as everyone turned to see where it had come from, a stone shattered one of the dirty windows that dimly lit the hall’s left-hand wall.

Was that it? Had he had some warning that there would be a riot? There was a moment of shocked silence, then a buzz. Rigaut, whose speech was drawing smoothly to a close, added a coda about deprivation being no excuse for crime. ‘The only thing to do with this rabble is sweep them off the streets, and with your help, that’s just what we shall do,’ he said, as another stone hit the window. A journalist at the far end of the front row feverishly noted down this last sentence, congratulating herself, no doubt, on being on the spot as the news broke.

I noticed Manu’s hand – his left hand, the one beside me – sneak towards his pocket. And suddenly (idiotically, my head rang with Mae West’s old line – Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?) I knew why he’d been too preoccupied to talk while we drove, why he’d kept his coat on even though the hall was so warm – why we were there. I grabbed his wrist and held on to it as tightly as I could – if I couldn’t make him drop whatever it was he was holding, I could at least prevent him aiming it.

He fought to free himself from my grasp, and since he was stronger than me, eventually succeeded. But by then the moment had passed. Rigaut had vanished, no doubt to take his place beside the police, ready for the television cameras that would soon be here, and another man – the one who’d introduced him – was standing in his place, telling us that fighting had broken out, that the building was a target, that the rioters had petrol bombs, that the Minister was anxious no one should be hurt, and that we were all to leave by the back exit. In an orderly way, he added, but everyone was too busy pushing their way towards the gangways to hear him.

We followed in their wake, as more stones hit the win-dows, and filed through a deserted kitchen into a sort of alleyway. There was a flash, followed by a bang, and I heard someone say ‘They’re setting fire to cars.’ I prayed ours was not one of them. I had no idea where it was: from the front of the hall I might have found it, but from this unknown alleyway, never. I hoped Manu was not similarly disoriented.

He set off at a furious pace. To our left we could hear shouts and bangs, and from somewhere at the front of the building a flicker of flame was visible. Something acrid in the air made us choke – perhaps now they were firing tear-gas. We heard running feet. And then suddenly we were at the car, which seemed miraculously untouched. As we slid inside and locked the doors, a group of boys appeared at the end of the street. They ran towards us. Manu lay back in his seat, saying nothing, staring at the roof: I put my hand into his pocket – an oddly intimate gesture – and pulled out the gun. It was smallish, heavy and black: it looked lethal enough, though in my shaking hands it would probably be worse than useless. As the boys drew level with us, I tried feverishly to work out which was the safety catch. But before I could release it they were past, more concerned with getting somewhere, or perhaps get-ting away from somewhere, than stopping to attack even such a tempting target as the Mercedes.

Unable to think what else to do with the gun, I stowed it in my handbag. A wave of rage washed over me – at Rigaut, at his bully-boys, at the terrifying young men who had just thundered past. Since he was to hand, I directed it at Manu. ‘You idiot!’ I shouted. ‘Are you mad? What good would that have done?’

‘It would have got rid of him,’ he muttered.

‘Your recipe for a better world.’

‘It would have
been
a better world. If you hadn’t interfered –’

‘So why did you bring me?’

‘You’re so keen to know about us,’ he muttered sulkily. ‘
Et voilà. La famille Rigaut
.’

I waited for him to start the car, but he seemed lost in a dream, so I unlocked the doors, rushed round to his side and pushed him into the passenger seat. He slid glassily across, his coat snagging on the gear-lever as I set about putting distance between us and the riot. Eventually we hit a main street, and after a while there was a roundabout and a sign to Paris and the
périphérique
. Beside me, Manu still lay motionless – stunned, perhaps, by what he’d nearly done. After a while I said sharply, ‘Manu, you’ll have to tell me where to go now.’

Silence.

I hit him sharply, a backhander across the neck. ‘Manu!’

His head jerked up. ‘What?’

‘Tell me where to go. I’ve never driven in Paris.’

He sat up, and mechanically issued instructions which I as mechanically followed. Eventually they led us to the parking garage. I slid the car into a slot and switched off the engine, shaking.

There was a bar opposite: we sat at a table near the back, and I ordered two double brandies. Behind the barman, the television news showed pictures of the riot we’d just escaped. In front of a burning car, the Minister talked about law and order and how the irresponsible few destroyed the lives of their fellow citizens.

‘Why do you hate him so much? Is it just politics?’

‘Just politics,’ he repeated scornfully. ‘His politics are part of what he is. You can’t separate them. Don’t you see that this is exactly what he intended? It’s not just that, though. He’s a murderer.’

‘You mean Delphine Peytoureau?’

‘
Delphine Peytoureau?
Your boyfriend’s wife? What’s she got to do with any of this?’

I felt myself blush. If even Manu knew about it, our only-too-visible embrace had evidently become a hot topic in the small world of St Front. I hoped Delphine herself had been spared the gossip, but it seemed unlikely – even my limited acquaintance with village life was enough to tell me that. I said, ‘Someone forced her off the road and she hit a tree. They haven’t found the driver.’

‘What are you saying? That my father –?’ Now that he was confronted by actual detail, he seemed stricken.

‘Not him personally, no. But it seems likely he’s connected. After Olivier published his story, he tried to get me accused of murder.’

‘Of my grandmother? Of course I read the story.’ He shook his head. ‘Really, Régine, things are bad enough without letting your imagination run away with you.’

‘You didn’t see your father that morning. He was terrified. Utterly panicked.
Something
had happened.’

Manu said dreamily, ‘As a matter of fact I asked him about it.’

That
was something I hadn’t expected. ‘Really? And what did he say?’

Somewhat to my surprise, he began to laugh. ‘He said it was all your fault.’

‘
My
fault! That’s too much. How could it be my fault? I didn’t even see her. That was the whole point.’

‘Ah, but you were the catalyst. The reason she died. He told me about it after the – the exhumation. I don’t think that was easy, even for him. She was his mother, after all . . . He rang, and we had dinner together. He wanted to talk. I didn’t want to, but he really seemed almost desperate. One of his intervals of being almost human . . . He said he’d arranged to call by La Jaubertie that morning to talk about the roof – you must have seen the mess there, they’d been arguing about it, there was something he’d forgotten to show her. He’d meant to get there around eleven, but then something came up and he had to make it earlier. He didn’t bother to tell Grand-maman – quite frankly, the kind of life she lived, it didn’t make a lot of difference if a visitor arrived at nine rather than eleven. So he got there a bit after nine.’

‘That must have been just after she’d called me.’

‘Perhaps. Anyhow, he found her in her bedroom, and she told him he’d have to wait, she couldn’t talk then, she had a visitor coming any moment. So he asked her who, and she said it was you. Naturally he got angry. He said he’d forbidden her to see you. And when my father forbids something . . .’

‘I still don’t understand that. The very thought of her lending us that picture seemed to make him apoplectic. Did you know he tried to pretend she didn’t really own it?’

Manu waved his hands in front of his face, as if to block out this fresh example of his father’s paranoia. ‘One thing at a time. So they began to argue, and then the doorbell rang, and of course Grand-maman wanted to go and answer it. But my father forbade her, he said she wasn’t moving from the room. He locked the door and wouldn’t give her the key, and she got angrier and angrier, and then, this is what he told me, after a bit she refused to talk to him any more, said he made her ill, and she was going to lie down. So then he unlocked the door and was going to leave – it was obvious they weren’t going to have a sens-ible discussion that day, and he took it for granted that by then you’d have given up. But when he looked out of the window he saw your car was still parked there, and there wasn’t anyone in it. Obviously you were still around somewhere. And of course he knew Grand-maman never bothered to lock the front door. So he thought he’d better check. And there you were, in the study, looking guilty. So he saw you off the premises, then went back to check on Grand-maman, but she was still lying down, and she wouldn’t talk to him. And he had to get on to his appointment. So he left her to it, left her to sulk were the words he used. He locked the place up to make sure no intruders would get in. And then of course it turned out she’d died. All because of you . . .’